Shelley's Song
by writergirl2003
Summary: All of those facial expressions, all of her words, her daily activities, it all belonged to Amber. But her mouth; that belonged to Shelley.


I wrote this a _long_ time ago, it's basically been hibernating in my computer for months, and I'm finally getting around to posting it. I'm trying SO hard to get back into writing, I really am. School and a few other things have been stressing me out very badly. I'm determined to finish my Ambercentric story, at the very _least_. 

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Amber's lips were the color of pink grapefruit, but they tasted like strawberries. They were thin and tugged up slightly at the corners, always. Even when she was frustrated or upset, they curled indistinctly, as if there was some running joke that only she knew, and repeated to herself in her head. She would dig her two front teeth into the lower lip gently, tugging on it when she was nervous or indecisive. This action caused her chin to jut out, caused a rush of color to her lips, and though she made it a point to be completely unreadable to everyone, there was always one person who could detect the meaning of every movement. Her mouth always gave her away, most of the time without speaking a single word. 

There was a certain flush to her cheeks that seemed to linger there continuously. It was barely noticeable, and unless someone was watching for it, it went undetected. But being so close to her so much of the time, Shelley had memorized it. It was something that she didn't have to force herself to think about, and the soft rush of pink always rested just beneath her cheekbones. If Shelley hadn't known better, and if she hadn't seen Amber's porcelain skin without make-up too many times to count, she would never have believed that the blush was genuine, and hadn't been created with rouge. 

Her face was full of so many different contradictories; too many to count. Her eyes, though the color of glass, would grow dark and narrow, and she would use them to intimidate others to her advantage. Her hair was soft and wispy, so blonde that it was almost white, and it brushed the back of her neck carelessly. It reminded Shelley so much of that incandescent light that often accompanied angels in illustrated pictures she'd seen. Obviously, that was a walking case of irony, because Amber Von Tussle was _no_ angel. She had taken those cherubic features; those blue-grey eyes, that white hair, that small, almost child-like in its beauty, face, and she had made them her own.

Yes, those eyes, that hair, they belonged to Amber. That blush that rose in her cheeks, the way her eyebrows arched and furrowed when she felt any sort of emotion. All of those facial expressions, all of her words, her daily activities, it all belonged to Amber. But her mouth, _that_ belonged to Shelley.

The way Amber's lips would part slightly, and the way those soft sighs would escape as Shelley's fingers dipped lower, down her flawless body, beneath her silky skirts. The way her tongue would dart to lick her lips between the breaths that came in short gasps when Shelley's fingers caressed her. The way her teeth tugged lightly on Shelley's own lips when they kissed. The way her voice broke pitch when she climaxed, Shelley claimed all of that greedily and without apology. 

She heard Amber sing every day. She would sing on the show, and hum soft tunes to herself during the day. Shelley heard all of that, and regarded it with a certain fondness that was difficult not to reserve for Amber, despite the fact that she would never allow that unadulterated admiration to be obvious to anyone. Amber would speak; Lord knew she talked constantly, her voice always soft and pure, except when she got angry. When she was angry, her voice grew shrill and high-pitched, her cheeks would flush deep pink, and she often made a small, irritated, but still utterly endearing noise in the back of her throat that gave her away completely. Still, none of those sounds matched the way Amber sounded during their moments of passion, the way her voice was soft and unsteady and high. The way she would gasp for air, and then take long, shuddering breaths as she attempted to steady herself. The way she would call Shelley's name helplessly as she reached her breaking point; it was almost melodic, and, quite possibly, better than when she sang consciously, for the crowds of teenagers huddled in front of the televisions every day at four o'clock. 

It was when Amber's voice broke in those moments of intimacy that she made no effort to control her tones, it was then that she let herself sigh and squeal with wild abandon. Those times when Shelley stopped shoving Amber, stopped digging her fingernails into the other girl's soft flesh, and let her fingers work for the greater good. It was, quite possibly, the only time in Shelley's life that she eagerly put something else before her own satisfaction. 

_That_ was when Amber sang for Shelley, and _only_ for her. And _those_ were the most beautiful songs that Shelley had ever heard. 


End file.
